


We're All Dead Now

by HaleTheYoungbloodSinnerKilljoy30120



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Dom!Patrick, Heavy Angst, I might switch it up sometimes, I think it fits better with the story though, I usually don't like dom Patrick and sub Pete, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sad Ending, Slow Build, Sub!Pete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaleTheYoungbloodSinnerKilljoy30120/pseuds/HaleTheYoungbloodSinnerKilljoy30120





	1. prologue

I can still smell the sickening scent of his breath so close to mine sometimes. The cigarettes and tobacco, the grime. It makes me shake in fear and hatred and despair every time I smell it again. The way he hurt me. I still remember it, like it was yesterday. The violation, the agony, the loss of control. He took things from me I can never get back, not in a thousand years. Not ever. I thought he could be different. He wasn't.


	2. Chapter 2

Pete's point of view:

 

It's January, I think... I'm not sure, really, but it is cold as fuck. I'm lying in bed, trying to pull the sheets up over myself without moving, which proves to be impossible. I'm slowly starving to death, maybe. I don't think I've left my bed for a week, but I just can't remember. My body is rigid now, barely there, and sort of disgusting. I don't like it, but I can't bring myself to eat anything. I think it goes without saying that depression is a bitch. Depression is the kind of girl that at one point before you had her you saw as beautiful and kind and delicate, but after you got her you saw her true colors- Or should I say void of color. She molds you into a lifeless, doll that only knows hurt. She's the kind of girl that breaks it off with you when she's tired of you, so you can finally breathe again, but begs you to come back. And for some reason, you always do, which is why I'm here right now, why I'm dying in my bed, why I stopped answering phone calls months ago and stopped showering after a week of feeling down again. 

 

At the point which I begin to think that people have forgotten about me completely, I hear the weak banging of a fist on my front door, bringing me back to the present. I slowly drag myself out of bed and stumble to the front door of my trashed apartment. I unlock the door and looks out to a man, just a boy, really, whom I never thought I'd see again. He is kneeling in the front of my door, sobbing into his hands, his strawberry blonde hair that I used to love so much covering his face. His hands and arms are bruised, his wrists are the worst, though, littered with black and purple and yellow fingerprints burnt into his skin. He doesn't look up at me, but I look at him, feeling my heart break. "Patrick..."


End file.
